Guy Wisdom

Finding Light

Finding Light
From January to June in 2004, the New Bilibid Prisons admitted 1,550 first-time offenders and 31 recidivists. In the six-month period, 25 inmates died while 10 escaped. But there are also some who defy the statistics—finding survival and a second chance.
By Carol H. Pajaron; Photographs by Bahaghari MFI



Mateo Ragasa walks towards us in his tentatively stooped stance. He shyly tilts his face upward to speak, betraying a huge switchblade's scar across his nose.

The 48-year-old father of seven is a former inmate at the New Bilibid Prisons (NBP) in Muntinlupa. While intervening in a family squabble, Mateo allegedly fired a wayward gun and killed another man by accident. Released in 2002 after serving four of a six-year sentence for homicide, he now works as a candle maker with other former prisoners at the Pag-asa sa Paglaya (PSP) Multipurpose Cooperative inside NBP's minimum-security compound. Founded by Father Victor Labao, SJ in 1994, their annual production of novelty and liturgical candles has yielded close to P4 million, serving as an alternative source of livelihood for Ragasa and his community.

Beyond profit, PSP offers them a choice apart from the Philippine penal system's revolving door. Ironically, freedom is less a privilege than an unfortunate consequence of their long period of incarceration. Ragasa admits that most ex-convicts inevitably return to a life of crime upon their release. "Kasi ginagamit nila 'pag labas nila ang pagkakulong, pinagyayabang nila na galing sila sa loob," he says. "Ako nahihiya ako sa sarili ko. Ang tingin ng iba mababa ako kaya umiiwas rin ako sa ibang tao."

Ragasa, who has since been estranged from his wife, lives alone in Cavite. He appreciates the occasional reunion with his kids. One of his four sons is now a parent himself, and Mateo beams at the thought of being a grandfather to twins. Most of his days are spent working at the PSP office, while Sundays are reserved for church duty at the Iglesia ni Kristo. "Pagka-oras ng hapon, naiisip ko parang nasa kulungan pa rin ako," he says. "Nandoon lang ako sa loob ng bahay. Yung mga kapitbahay ko nga sinasabi, 'Mateo, bakit parang walang tao sa bahay mo?' Nalilibang lang ako kasi marami rin akong ginagawa—naglalaba, nagwawalis, o nanunuod ng TV. Ako rin ang nagluluto."

"Kung isipin mong mabuti, kung wala kang trabaho sa laya, mas mahirap pa kesa sa loob [ng Bilibid]. Kasi sa loob, kung wala kang trabaho doon, may pagkain ka. Yun ang pagkakaiba," explains Artemio Dumasig, another PSP worker. "Kaya kailangan magsikap ka sa labas na makakita ng trabaho. Kaya lang mahirap naman makahanap ng trabaho para sa katulad naming may record".

Sentenced to 6-8 years in prison for selling marijuana in 1992, Dumasig, now 44, recalls his range of emotions upon learning of his eventual release. "Excited ako, parang hindi malaman kung saan ako didiretso, saan makakita ng trabaho," he shares. "Panibagong adjustment sa buhay."

Change is familiar territory for a former inmate. From lawbreakers, Dumasig and company were constrained to adapt to Bilibid's stringent rules and regulations. "Kailangan sa loob sumunod ka sa mga patakaran. 'Pag sumuway ka, may parusa sa iyo, tulad ng takal—pinapalo ka sa puwit 'pag hindi ka sumunod," he recounts. He did not experience the ordeal first-hand; seeing it in his own eyes had been enough of an education.

You can call Noel Pascua, 40—with his quick wit and easy smile—if not a natural comic, a born businessman. Now part of PSP's sales team, he calls doing time in Bilibid, without a trace of irony, "a blessing." This is his first legitimate job since being convicted of drug charges in 1992. Growing up in Pangasinan, in proximity to the noto-riously abundant marijuana supply in Baguio and Kalinga, he progressed from drug runner to pusher in just a matter of weeks when he didn't make enough money as a small-time roadside vendor. "Hindi ko nga alam kung ano pala ang probisyon niyan, kung ano ang sama, wala akong alam," he says. "Basta ako makapagtinda lang, makapag-hanapbuhay, mapakain ko ang pamilya ko." He was finally apprehended through the now-defunct Narcotics Command's (NARCOM) Palit-Ulo program. "May nagturo sa akin kaya kinakailangan ko magturo rin ng isa para ako naman ang makawala at hindi ako ang makulong. Pinapaturo naman sa akin kung kanino ko kinukuha ang drugs. Hindi ko maituro dahil malakas ang impluwensiya niya, may kapit siya," he explains. "Kung hindi mo pwedeng maituro, sabi nila, 'Ayusin na lang natin ito, kinse mil.' Noong panahon na yun wala naman akong kinse mil na maibabayad sa kanila. Nagtitinda nga lang ako—saan ako makakakuha ng pera? Kaya nga ako nagtitinda para may maipakain sa pamilya."

Pascua had to earn his upbeat disposition. When he first found himself within prison walls, his thoughts simply wavered between doom and desperation. "Bahala na…hindi ko alam ang kahihinatnan ng pamilya ko. Dahil nga sa dami ng problema, hindi ko na maisip kung ano'ng mangyayari," he says. He recalls leaving his family in inconsolable tears at the futility of his predicament. However, Noel's resourcefulness served him well inside Bilibid. To continue providing for his wife and children, he offered laundry and massage services to wealthier inmates. "Sa lingguhan kong sweldo, naiiambag ko sa pamilya ko, sa pagbayad ng P50 noon para sa upa sa bahay."

Change is familiar territory for a former inmate. From lawbreakers, Dumasig and company were constrained to adapt to Bilibid's stringent rules and regulations.

His family would soon find their own resilience. Pascua credits their regular visits as his inspiration. His mother, Puring, did not give up on her son—offering him advice or admonition, as well as the unlikely imagination of a second chance. "May lakas din pala ako ng loob, yung hindi ko nagagawa noon, nagagawa ko ngayon. Kaya ko pala tumayo sa sarili kong paa," he muses. "Blessing ito para sa akin kasi naituwid ko ang buhay ko sa tamang pamamaraan. Proud pa rin ako kahit dati akong bilanggo."

Their sense of dignity—that from an honest day's work—is well deserved. Each candle, crafted with their bare hands while the wax is still warm, would be its keepsake. When Artemio and Noel happily pose for photos to tell their survival story, Mateo joins them, slowly making his way in his habitually hunched stance. He lifts his head to look at the camera and the scar is still there. But this time, there's also a smile.

INSIDE INFORMATION

Rene (not his real name) is only 24 but in serving 10 of his 12-year sentence at the New Bilibid Prisons, he already personifies the platitude in 'wisdom beyond his years.'

Convicted of drug charges at 14 upon moving to Manila from his hometown of Cebu, Bilibid's Juvenile and Youth ward for now is home, and his fellow inmates family. As the group's appointed chairman, Rene has their back—encouraging them to study, attend Church or play sports, and even offering legal advice. Anything to stay out of trouble.

The other day he was talking to their youngest inmate, a 14-year-old convicted of rape. The kid was giving the visiting teacher a tough time. Rene invited him to serve during Sunday mass. "Hindi siya nag-aaral, minumura niya 'yung teacher," shares Rene. "Sabi ko sa teacher, kukunin ko siya sa simbahan bilang sacristan. Susubukan ko lang. Bibigyan ko siya ng isang commitment. Pinakabata namin siya kaya 'di pwedeng pabayaan."

"Pagka-oras ng hapon, naiisip ko parang nasa kulungan pa rin ako."

Though possibility seems constrained by the bars of a jail cell, the realm of Rene's hopes is less finite. Some of his dreams are no different from yours: that he gets a college degree (He has two more years of study in Sociology inside Bilibid.); that he begins and ends the day with his family; and that his Mom can become proud of her son. With his own life as learning, Rene takes us to school on survival:PRISON ISN'T A ROBIN PADILLA MOVIE. Rene and the rest may not be so different from you. It's both a scary and comforting thought. "Pag sinabing bilanggo, may stigma na tinatawag. Malaking bagay yun na makwento mo sa kaibigan mo na hindi pa nakapunta dito, sabihin mo ang nakita mo dito,ang naramdaman mo dito. Nakakalungkot, kung tulad ko, nagsasalita ako tungkol sa kagandahan, sa pelikula naman, puro kaguluhan. Kung sabagay may positive, may negative din—pero sana manaig yung katotohanan."

Think less of yourself. In Scarface's romanticized template of thug life: "The world is mine." But the tragic end should tell you otherwise. "Nung nasa layaako, wala akong iniisip kundi sarili ko lang, paano ako sumaya. 'Di ko alam nakakasa-gasa na ako ng ibang tao, ng ibang damda-min. Wala akong pakialam basta ako, masaya. 'Di ko akalain na pagkakulong ko pala, malaking tulong sa akin. Hindi sa nagpapasalamat ako at nakulong ako, pero malaki ang pinagbago ko."

Be your own man. Sometimes our legal system works, so you can't count on somebody else taking the fall. "Nung nasa laya ako 'di ko ini-expect na makulong ako kasi meron akong lolo na kapitan ng pulis. So malakas ang loob ko na gumawa ng kalokohan. Akala ko sasanggahin ako. Yun pala walang kama-kamag-anak sa ganun, naunawaan ko rin."

Taking the lead isn't easy. Owing up to the challenge of leadership can change you. "Kumbaga kung 120 sila, 121 dapat ang ugali mo. Bawat isa sa kanila may ugali na, yung pang-121 ikaw yun. So ganun ang pinag-aaralan ko, mahirap magdala. Minsan sabi ko sa sarili ko na mas maganda pa siguro na sumunod na lang kaysa sa magpasunod. Minsan umiiyak ako. 'Di ko naman sila pwedeng pagsalitaan ng masakit kasi magdadamdam sa akin."

If all else fails, keep trying. Despite your good intentions, accept that you can't win them all. "Kahit paano, may nakikinig, may natutunan. Meron pa ring sumusuwag pero expected na yun. Kahit naman saang organisasyon, ganyan ang problema pero doon ka tatatag, e. Huwag mo lang ayawan."

Change people's minds. You can't rewrite your past; but you can still work on your future. "Oo, naging masama ako, addict ako. Pero subukan n'yo 'ko bigyan ng pagkakataon. Andun pa rin ang pagalinlangan ng ibang tao, pati pamilya ko—pero 'di ko sila masisisi. Pero ako, nagsisikap ako. Alam ko ang gusto kong gawin. Sabi ko nga sa magulang ko, 'Nay, sana maipagmalaki n'yo rin ako.'"

HOPE'S HANDBOOK

"May lakas din pala ako ng loob, yung hindi ko nagagawa noon, nagagawa ko ngayon. Kaya ko palang tumayo sa sarili kong paa."

It seems serendipitous that Mateo, Artemio and Noel make candles for a living, as in and out of Bilibid, hope had been their daily enterprise. While the penitentiary has its policies, they share the rudiments of a second chance:

Be understanding. Artemio admits that even sharing meals with his fellow inmates was an eyeopener. "Marami akong nakilala mula sa ibang lugar, iba't ibang probinsya," he says. "Pagdating mo sa Bilibid, iba-iba kayo ng lengguwahe, tapos iba-ibang ugali. Kailangan mag-adjust ka sa sarili mo kasi pag hindi ka mag-adjust, wala kang magawa."

It takes more daring to say 'No'. Your first mistake should suffice as a lesson. "Madali akong matukso, tumikim ng isang beses ng bawal," he concedes. "Nakita ko na hindi pala maganda yun kasi kung hindi ako sumubok, hindi sana ako nakulong." For his good behavior inside the NBP, Dumasig was rewarded with a reduced sentence.

Learn from the mistakes of your father. Noel's dad abandoned their family when he was a child. "Nag-iisa na nga lang ako, tutularan ko pa siya," he realized at the thought of separation from his own kids.

Keep your head up. His criminal record is often perceived as a stigma, but Noel appreciates how others see it as a testament of a changed man. "Proud din ang ibang tao na naging ganito ako, hindi ako 'yung dating inaalipusta at medyo matastas na," he says. "Namulat ako sa pagkakulong ko sa tamang direksyon."

Faith is non-negotiable. It's more difficult to draw another's conviction in your change when your own belief fails. Despite the circumstances of his arrest, Mateo chooses to see himself as a good man. "Dahil sa pananam-palataya, naging matatag ako," he says.

 

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